Justice League Noir Chapter 2: Friendly Faces
by MightyBearShark
Summary: While walking the mean streets of Metropolis, Clark runs into a familiar face.


The coal-grey sky above my head roils with toxic thunder. Pollution was the last real villain of this sad story, and all the tights in the multiverse couldn't fight back the damage we visited on ourselves. Finishing the remains of the bottle while bat-drones sorted the wreckage behind me, I keep my head down. Bruce would be proud of the world his son Damien built after his passing. No one man could sustain what Bruce so admirably had in our golden years. So, to ensure the public good, Damien revitalized Brother Eye with his own Wayne-family twist.

Drones, and dozens for every city of the world. Flashing soulless eyes set in a carbon-fibre frames, encapsulating the fear-inducing visage of Damien's father and the ruthlessness of his mother. They were easily twice as efficient as law enforcement and helped quell the riots started once they were forced into an early retirement. The police were so happy for help when the League still circled the globe, but once the help got too good, they changed their tune. Officers starting riots. Who thought I'd live to see the day? Damien never was one for tact.

The sound of "Stand Back, Citizen" fades behind me, and I can't help but smile at the slight hint of Bruce's voice in their tone. The night air is electric, both literally and figuratively, as I mingle with downtown Metropolis. I can't keep up with the trends. I remember when people would scream at the sight of a cyborg or mechanically enhanced, but now they do it to themselves. I pass a pair of eyes, emerald green and with an optical zoom that rivals my own. An arm attached to a mother capable of ripping anyone in half that would threaten her child. I guess when the police were replaced, people realized that we could be, too. Good thinking, Damien. You made us obsolete.

I'd be mad at the kid if I hadn't checked out years before his revolutionary concept. Absently, I let my thoughts carry me down an alley and into the past. Not everything had gone bad after Lois passed. Time carried on regardless of how much I tried to stop it. Diana returned the Themyscira after the Korean American war. The once proud nation of North Korea threatened to flatten her island for "representing the American ideal." She responded by soundly crushing them beneath an Amazonian force the world was entirely unaware of. Since then, no one's heard a word from the now Amazon Queen. Arthur passed away in his sleep with Mira at his side. J'onn disappeared after suspicious lights were sighted in the sky over Central City. God, I still remember the smile on his face. Wherever he's gone, I hope he's found peace. Just as my thoughts come around to Barry and his mysterious disappearance, I am rudely interrupted for the second time tonight.

"Give me your money, old man," one voice echoes from behind me, his pitch thrown off but what sounds to be a black-market vochorder.

"Yeah, what he said," comes another. This voice belonging to a young tough who'd been in the dumpster ten feet ahead of me. I can see the polluted blood beneath their skin. They've been shooting Last Laugh. The one joke the pale-faced clown prince of crime managed to play after Bruce put him in the ground. Their grins are full of green teeth and drug-fueled rage. Even if I gave them my wallet, they'd leave me for dead. Well, they would if they could.

'Son, this wouldn't be the smartest decision you've made all day." I take off my jacket, laying it over a pallet standing on its end. I don't have much money anymore since the Daily Planet has gone clickbait, top-ten listicle, so I need to keep as many clothes as I can.

"Yeah? What d'you know, gramps?" croaks the boy behind me with the robotic frog voice.

"I know that shit in your blood is poison, son. I know your attitude will likely get you killed long before it does, but it will be a close race."

"I don't need this from a Geezer. Franky, stick em!"

"Don't use my name, Darby. What if he tells the Bots?"

'He ain't making it out this alley, Franky. You know that."

"Oh yeah," Franky says, brandishing his knife and a green snarl. "I remember now."

In all this excitement I've forgotten about my back, still sore from the car crashing into me. Sure, my Kryptonian biology gave me strength, speed, and a long life beneath the yellow sun. But the sun doesn't shine much anymore, and if I exert myself I get depleted like an old rechargeable battery that's been in use for too long. This wouldn't be a hard fight, but I'm not looking forward to learning whether or not a knife can pierce my skin. I'm too busy looking forward to remember frog-boy sneaking up behind me.

The metal of his switchblade bends against my back, right around my kidneys. I hear my shirt rip but not the skin, and think luckily the car crash didn't take too much out of me. I'll have to get a new shirt, though. Lois got me this shirt. Said it went with my eyes. That's more than enough to push me into angry.

I backhand the punk harder than I should into an alley wall. Brick dust and garbage fill the cramped air as his knife clatters to the pavement. I listen for a long moment and hear a heartbeat, then take another to decide if I'm happy or disappointed. I look forward and see the awestruck face of "Franky" as he starts to run. I move to dash, but the ache in my knee prevents me from breaking the sound barrier. Back in the good ol' days, I'd be in front of him before he could blink. Now, I have to settle for merely catching him and tossing him back into the dumpster he crawled out behind. I'm gentler this time. A few lights slaps dislodge a dozen or so teeth, and I leave him without that haunting smile.

"Not bad for an old man" buzzes a familiar, albeit robotic voice from behind me. It's been years, but my memory has kept keen while my body went to booze and rot.

"Damien," I say, turning on my heels and looking toward the mouth of the alley. "It's been a few years."

"Looks like a few extra for you, Grandpa." His robotic voice echoing from the helmet of a hulking black suit. "Need a hand?"

His father would be proud to see this creation. The people walking down the street give him a wide berth; they know who he is. While his drones were a grey color, this suit was pitch black. Black like her hair. Red neon pulses beneath the plates of his armor. He looks like the devil birthed a man-shaped tank, and tasked it to fight crime. In a way, he had.

"No," I say. "I think I can handle two kids."

Damien's neck whirs as he looks between my two assailants and back to me. "Not bad, Clark."

I crack a smile. It's been so long it hurts my cheeks. "High praise," I say. "From a dead man."


End file.
